


Diamonds are Forever (but love isn't)

by theoneleggedbicorn



Category: James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Alcohol, Corporal Punishment, Father Figures, Gen, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneleggedbicorn/pseuds/theoneleggedbicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is heartbroken over Tiffany Case and tries to drown his sorrows in alcohol.  M, he finds, has a thing or two to say about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diamonds are Forever (but love isn't)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Contains disciplinary, non-sexual spanking of a secret agent by his superior and a poor attempt to use British English.
> 
> This is based off Ian Fleming's novels, NOT the James Bond movies. It takes place after Diamonds are Forever, just before From Russia with Love.

Bond looked up as the red telephone rang harshly on his desk. M. Immediately his pulse quickened – a new assignment! At last the blood would pump through his veins and evict this damnable apathy that had overcome him after Tiffany’s departure.

He answered, salutation coming to his lips only to be cut off by the Chief of Staff.

“M wants to see you, straight away. Says it’s urgent.” His friend’s voice gave a hint of discomfort.

“Did he say what for?” M rarely did, but Bond didn’t want to be caught off guard if there was, in fact, some sort of surprise waiting for him. 

“No, just got off the telephone with someone and started scowling and barking for you. You know how he gets,” Tanner’s reply was more hesitant than Bond had come to expect from the man. 

Bond rose from his seat, gladly tossing aside the file on Soviet weapons trafficking he had been looking through. He steadied himself and grimaced as he remembered how many vodka martinis he had imbibed the previous night (or that morning). As he exited his office, he winked crassly at Loelia and mentally remarked for the thousandth time how lucky he was to have such a beautiful secretary. 

“Don’t wait up for me, Lil, looks like there’s something good in the works.” His exclamation was slightly slurred, another remnant of his liquid indulgence.

Loelia’s only reply was a disapproving glower, one of many since Bond’s drinking had started affecting his performance in the office. Bond let it wash over him with another wink and a wave, and stepped into the lift with a much lighter heart. 

He knew his drinking was becoming a problem – how could he not? M had already given him a thorough dressing-down when he had made a terrible showing at the shooting range, barely even scoring passing marks after having had too much scotch that morning. That had been weeks ago, right after Tiffany had left, and M had warned him to clean up his act before he got himself killed. 

Bond stepped out of the lift and gave a cheery wave to the desirable Miss Moneypenny, M’s secretary. She shifted, clearly uncomfortable with what was about to occur. Had Bond’s famed instincts not been dulled by drink, they would have warned him to turn back; as such he knocked and entered M’s office oblivious to the danger within.

“Sir? What is it?” Bond looked at the venerable man he so loved and obeyed. There was no open file on M’s desk, nor any hint of excitement in his lined face. He looked stern, and tired.

“Have a seat, James,” came the reply. 

Bond took his customary seat in front of the well-polished desk, interest piqued. M very rarely referred to him by his Christian name. In fact, the last instance Bond could recall had probably been around the time of the Hugo Drax affair, and he thought for a moment that perhaps M had another personal matter he wanted Bond to look into. 

M gazed at his agent, eyes steady and impassive as always. He waited for a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Your secretary, Miss Ponsonby I believe, passed along a message to me this morning through Miss Moneypenny.”

Lil? What the dickens had she wanted with M?

“What about, sir?”

“Apparently -” here, M paused to consult a notepad by his telephone “– today is the third day this week you have come to the office intoxicated, and the sixteenth time this month. Not only that, Miss Ponsonby seemed to recall that recently you’ve been leaving in worse condition than you’ve arrived.”

He looked up, directly into Bond’s suddenly embarrassed eyes.

“ _Have you been drinking on the job, James?_ ” The steel in his voice pierced through whatever drunken haze had been slowing Bond’s mental faculties. 

“Ah – well, I wouldn’t say I drinking to excess by any means, sir. I may have had a bit but it was hardly a drop, and besides I was only doing paperwork. Not that I don’t consider my reports to be worthy of my full attention, but -” 

M interrupted his rambling. “That’s enough. You know full well there is no excuse you can give me that would justify your conduct these past few weeks. Stand up.” 

Bond stared at him, hoping beyond all hope that M wasn’t considering what Bond thought he might be. M had only been this displeased with him a few times before, and all of those instances had ended the same way: Bond, thoroughly reformed, limping out of M’s office with a sore backside. 

He pushed out of his chair slowly, hoping to delay the inevitable. M opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a solid mahogany half meter ruler. Bond looked at him, eyes wide, and opened his mouth to protest. 

“Don’t try and talk your way out of this, James. You know you’ve had it coming for a while. Lower your trousers and bend over my desk, and let’s get this unpleasantness over with as soon as possible.” 

Bond knew he would never disobey M’s orders, just as he knew he would accept whatever punishment M deemed necessary to get back in the man’s good graces. He did as he was told with quick efficiency, all the while dreading his impending thrashing. Pushing his slacks down to his knees, he lowered his torso to balance on his folded arms and waited, tense as a hairpin trigger. 

M stepped around the corner of his desk and stood behind Bond. He weighed the ruler in his hand thoughtfully, then raised his arm and swung it down, cracking it sharply against Bond’s upturned buttocks. 

Bond, who had just about the highest pain tolerance in the entire British Secret Service and who had been tortured countless times, couldn’t restrain a yelp. There was something about M’s punishments, or perhaps M himself, that cut through all of his usual defenses against physical agony more than any SMERSH agent or American gangster could. 

M continued snapping the ruler down, ignoring the gasps and muffled cries coming from the spy he considered his family. Bond knew from experience that the lecture wouldn't start until M felt he was in a more receptive mindset, usually after a few minutes of steady spanking had heated his bottom to the point of discomfort. 

“Why are you being punished?” M demanded after several moments, as expected. 

“Because I – oh, sir! – because I’ve been drinking more than usual,” Bond had so far managed to stay still, but now couldn’t stop himself from trying to squirm out of M’s way. 

“More than usual? I should say so! Keep still, James. Now you know I have nothing against a stiff drink every now and again, but you’ve been going home and getting absolutely plastered every evening and, for all I know, every morning. You’ve been coming in to work more than a little tipsy, and according to your secretary you go home pissed as a newt so apparently you’ve been drinking at work as well. Even I’ve noticed your surliness, the way you’ve been snapping at your secretary and your fellow agents. That kind of behaviour is completely unacceptable, do you understand me?” 

At Bond’s answering affirmative he continued. 

“Now I suppose this is all due at least in part to that woman, Miss Case, so you’re going to tell me what happened with her and why in the Lord’s name it’s got you so out of sorts.” 

“No, I can’t, sir, please don’t ask me to talk about her,” Bond gulped back a sob at the thought of the woman who had destroyed his heart. 

M didn’t say anything, just brought the ruler down hard on Bond’s thighs, past the scant protection of his thin cotton shorts. He steadily rained down swat after swat, turning the skin red as the Soviet flag. 

“Alright, sir, alright, please!” Bond bit out at this painful shift in target. “She left me, said I was impossible to live with after one of our many rows. Met some American chap at the Embassy, a Marine Corps major.” At the thought of Tiffany leaving Bond nearly lost what was left of his composure, several tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He tried to draw in a breath to collect himself, but it sounded more like a sniffle. 

“There now, James. I’m sorry things didn’t work out, but that doesn’t mean you can lose control over yourself. You’ll find another woman, but not if you drink yourself into an early grave. How am I supposed to trust you with the security of this country if I can’t trust you to sit in your office and stay out of trouble?” 

The thought of losing M’s trust along with Tiffany’s love was what did him in. Bond let out a ragged cry, then dropped his head onto the cool surface of M’s desk, overcome by grief. 

“Just a few more minutes, James. I need to be sure you won’t continue on with this recklessness and get yourself killed the minute I put you back in the field.” 

For a minute the only sounds in the room were those of the ruler meeting skin and Bond’s quiet cries of pain. 

A gruff quality entered M’s voice. “You know I think rather highly of you, and I would be most upset if something were to happen to you. You’re a good agent and a good man, and while I can’t say I approve of your womanizing I daresay you’ll find someone else to get your mind off Miss Case without much trouble. Not all women can come to terms with the kind of lives we lead here, but that doesn’t mean you’re alone. I won’t have you throwing away the friends you have by wallowing in the bottle.”

He finished up with a dozen resounding smacks to the tops of Bond’s thighs, then lay the heavy ruler on the desk. Bond lay there, breathing heavily and trying to discreetly blink away his tears. His backside was blazing, but some of his moroseness had begun to fade at M’s words. 

Bond slowly rose from his position and eased his trousers back on. M looked at him pointedly. 

“I don’t think we’ve quite finished everything, have we? Go bring me whatever it is you’ve been drinking from your office.” 

Flushed with embarrassment at the thought of facing Miss Moneypenny after she had heard what had transpired, Bond did as he was asked. The beautiful woman only gave him a knowing look as he exited M’s office. Not so with his own secretary. 

“I hope you’re not too sore with me,” Loelia worried. “I was only trying to help.” 

“I know, Lil. I’m not sore. Well, not with you, anyway,” Bond replied, anxious to keep the conversation minimal. He went into his office and pulled out a bottle of gin, then a flask of scotch. He knew M would be able to discern whether he had handed over all of his supply, so he reached into his cabinet drawer and took out a mostly empty bottle of vodka. 

Loelia smiled thankfully at him when she saw what he carried, and Bond felt like a heel for being the source of her concern. He went directly to M’s office and handed over the collection. M nodded at him, then took the bottles into the small attached washroom and poured their contents down the drain. 

Upon exiting, his superior did not return to his desk but instead came over to where Bond was standing and grasped his shoulder. Any sort of physical affection from M was rare, and almost exclusively reserved for occasions when M had reason to be harsher than usual with Bond. 

“I don’t want you going home alone and drinking yourself into oblivion tonight, Bond. You’ll come with me to Blades, and we’ll enjoy dinner and some cards. Baccarat, perhaps, or bridge. Your choice.” 

He gifted Bond with one of his infrequent smiles, the kind that showed more in his eyes than his mouth, and the two left headquarters, unaware that somewhere in Moscow, a plan was being laid… 


End file.
